She Said Dryly

It’s Monday morning and I’m shattered.  I’m shattered because this weekend I indulgently enjoyed two consecutive nights out, which have left me feeling  quite ready to admit that *deep breath* I can’t do it anymore.  A depressing realisation for anyone below the age of 30, I’m sure you’ll agree. 

Vats of Cosmopolitan on Friday night made for a hazy memory of the taxi ride home, and a potent blood : alcohol ratio only to be outdone by the following evening’s effort, as I ill-advisedly replenished with wine and Jagerbombs.  A written-off Sunday and a pile of work left for this morning was the disappointing result.

I had hoped for a constructive weekend of updating my blog or embarking upon one of my many impending assignments, but instead I found myself inanely catching flies in front of the telly, shoving anything with a fat content of over 25% in the general direction of my face, and drinking copious amounts of strong coffee.  Rather than getting out a pen and paper to spend the afternoon jotting down writing ideas or planning the week ahead, I found myself glued to the obligatory Sunday ‘Come Dine With Me’ marathon, captivated and unmoving, regardless of the fact that I had witnessed this particular competition – the one with Ernie from Wales – on at least four previous occasions.  Probably hung-over on a Sunday.

So after as much deliberation as I could muster amid yesterday’s lethargy, I have taken the decision to abstain from alcohol for the next month.  No Sir, not a single drop will pass my lips until the 29^th February.   And I must admit, as the coming weeks loom before me like a salt-flat stretch of the Sahara, I feel a little excited.  No longer will I be dogged by a head that feels as though it’s been overstuffed with cotton-wool, an unquenchable morning thirst, or the appetite of a small North African tribe.  I shall breeze through February carefree, unhindered by Facebook photo notifications, and – here’s hoping – a couple of pounds lighter.

Thirty days to go! 

Parched.

I love Mary-Kate & Ashley Olsen as much as the next 90’s kid. Two Of A Kind was pretty much the holy grail of Nick Jnr when I was a lass, and I’ve maintained a moderate interest in the sisters ever since.

There have been times when, much to my grievance, I have been forced to admit that consistent with popular opinion, MK has looked a little like a street urchin and Ashley has appeared, well... how can I say this?  A little odd.  But in over 20 years and an adolescence dominated by fame, who wouldn't have the odd slip up?  For the most part I have hailed their fashion choices and embraced each of their individual, slightly quirky styles. 

To summarise, I acknowledge that these girls know how to dress:

Beautiful, no? 

Now I like clothes, and shoes and bags, and naturally, it is the more high end items that catch my eye.  So I awaited the launch of the Olsen's new fashion line 'The Row' with bated breath, and immediately, this vintage-look beauty - 

- caught my attention.  The shape, the colour and the gold detailing channel vintage glamour at it's best and I have no doubt that this little number could transform an outfit.  With plently of space for night out essentials, and by 'essentials' I mean keys, phone, purse and a wealth of make-up that NEVER gets used (why do we do that?!), this bag is almost perfection.

But is perfection worth over two thousand pounds?  Yes, this bad boy carries a hefty $3,200 price tag.

It’s no secret that opting for high fashion is going to have a negative impact on your pocket.  Louboutin heels, Mark Jacobs bags, Burberry macs.  *sigh*.  I'm not the first, and I certainly won't be the last to trawl through Net-A-Porter wistfully eyeing the treasures before me and wishing I was a child prodigy with millions of dollars at my disposal.  But I'm not; and should a disposable £2,000 ever find it's way into my account, is this where it would go?  Doesn't it just seem like a tremendous waste?

Perhaps I'm just a jealous, prudent soul, who will spend her latter years buying clothes from 'the catalogue' January sale edition, and fishing knitwear out of bargain bins, all the while grumbling about the state of the economy. 

Whilst I sincerely hope that this fate does not await me, for now I'm happy to admit that a Toppers clutch parts me from enough of my hard-earned cash for my liking.  So thanks but no thanks MK & A, you can keep your leather perfection, I'm off for some finely crafted pleather.

“I don’t ever want to catch up with happy, I always want to pursue it.”

I pretty much love this statement.  Take a bow, George Clinton.

I was left physically and emotionally drained following the conclusion of Sherlock series 2 on Sunday night, and as such have taken to consoling myself with the continuous perusal of Benedict Cumberbatch on Google Images.

Cumberbitch 4 Life.

*Sigh*

LISTED

A few days ago, as I was leisurely whiling away the hours perusing Facebook, I was unexpectedly faced with a rather unsettling conundrum.  I was suddenly notably aware of my life plan, and the actuality that I don’t, in fact, have one.

The realisation was forced upon me when an old school friend made the announcement that he and his girlfriend were expecting their first child.  Suddenly I felt like the kid that just couldn’t master the egg and spoon race at sports day, clumsily navigating across the grass to a chorus of sympathetic encouragement from bored adults fed up of waiting for me to catch on. 

When I was at school, my friends and I used to talk about what age we were going accomplish certain milestones and expectations.  Marriage, children, dream jobs, meeting Hanson.

In my life list, initially marriage came at 24,  by which time, naturally, I would have snared my dream job and procured a modest, yet nonetheless comfortable, abode. This gives me 12 months max., and with no Prince Charming to speak of as yet, I think I’m due an appraisal.

When I asked a close friend recently whether she still kept a list, she responded with a concise and definitive plan through her twenties, culminating in a successful marriage, career and, of course, the obligatory 2.4 children. 

In addition to my friend’s alarming revelation, I attended the wedding of some friends for the first time at the end of last year.  Yes, my friends.  Getting married.  Pledging their lives to one another forever.  I can barely commit to a hairstyle in the long-term, let alone another person with all their habits and complications.

When I was young, 24 seemed so old.  24-year-olds were sorted, they had jobs, houses, friends, partners.  They are not kids or teenagers, they’re adults, and adults always have it together, right?

Wrong.  Well, it is in my case at least.

Twelve months ago, as I watched the clock strike 5pm, I took a familiar sigh of relief.  The fourth sigh of relief of its kind that week, actually.  For today was Thursday. 

Working a nine to five desk job that is neither fulfilling nor financially rewarding can really get on your bloody nerves, actually.  Post University, I had embarked upon the career ladder with gusto, bursting onto the scene brandishing my new title like top prize at the cattle fair.  For I was to be the NEW Sales Co-Ordinator of an up-and-coming Lancashire packaging business. Ho yes, no life-enhancing gap year for me.  I was to be the next Karren Brady, pioneering the business world like Natasha Giggs pioneered a whole new level of non-celebrity.

Except it was just really boring, and didn't even feign an attempt at making me happy.  I guess the question is, at what point do we decide to accept our lot in life?  Do we ever stop dreaming of better?  And is better really out there? 

We all have dreams and we all have a breaking point, so when an article written by Esther Freud entitled, ‘So Why Haven’t You Done It Yet,’ featured in my beloved Elle Magazine, naturally, I was inspired to turn my life on its head.  Asking questions like, ‘am I happy?’, and ‘what would I do if I could do anything?’ proved dangerous.  Before long I was handing in my notice and skipping into the sunset, a head full of dreams and a pocket full of hope.  Or, you know, about £20.

Preparing to go back to University to pursue a career in media (I am the next Chris Moyles, fyi), I quit my job and headed down south for a summer in the Big Smoke.  When disaster struck, and the course was deferred just two weeks before it was due to commence, I was forced into unemployment.

This was never in the plan.

The first time I had to fill in a form that required me to select my shiny new (un)employment status it took me 15 minutes.  I had worked tirelessly from the moment I was old enough to, throughout school and university, and I’d snared my first full-time job before I’d even sat my final exams.

My only hope now is that Esther Freud will compose an article entitled, ‘This Is Why You Hadn’t Done It Yet, Here’s What To Do Next…’

Until then, I’m muddling through.  Someone hand me some lined paper and a pen, I’ve got a list to make!

A bromance of epic proportions.

HNY

After the great oppulence and over-indulgence of Christmas, New Year generously offers the prospect of wiping the slate clean, ridding ourselves of the festive paunch and abstaining from prolonged binge eating and drinking for more than 24 hours.  Resolutions are formulated and hopes are high.

So naturally us Brits aim to welcome this wondrous opportunity to start afresh as utterly inebriated as possible.

I, myself, enjoyed a drunken haze as the clock struck 12, and as a result brought in the New Year with my head in my hands, a stiff knee and all the very best of intentions for 2012.

I’ll keep you posted.